


Call Me A Safe Bet

by cutloosemcgoose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Miscommunication, break up fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutloosemcgoose/pseuds/cutloosemcgoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles breaks up with him on a Tuesday.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me A Safe Bet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drunktuesdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/gifts).



> [Lea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/pseuds/drunktuesdays) asked for sad breakup fic set to [Brand New](http://drunktuesdaze.tumblr.com/post/52252296367/requested-by-stilinskiscrotch-no) and I was helpless to resist. This story owes everything to her. 
> 
> Title from The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot. If you’ve never heard it [acoustic](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnJVswLUTBs), do yourself a favor and go listen.
> 
> I cherry picked the parts of season three I felt like keeping, so Heather and the darach are in this and Erica and Boyd are still alive. Just go with it.
> 
> To all my coworkers: sorry I'm not sorry that I played the same two Brand New albums on repeat all week.
> 
> Warnings: Underage (Derek/Stiles). Derek has consensual, rebound sex with a lot of people in an attempt to not deal with his feelings. One character suffers a major, non-fatal, off-screen injury. References to off-screen deaths.

Stiles breaks up with him on a Tuesday.

“Stop,” he says, when Derek shows up in his room, tries to pull him close. It’s been a long week; a long year. The Sheriff is still in the hospital and the alphas are all dead or scattered. Scott and Derek ripped Deucalion apart themselves, buried the pieces all over Beacon Hills like a warning.

The pack’s been rotating in and out like clockwork since the Sheriff got hurt, since Kali put a knife in his gut and twisted, just to show what she could, what she would do. Derek passes Isaac on his way in, nods a grateful greeting. He finds Stiles alone in his bedroom, just sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. He doesn't look up when Derek walks in.

He doesn't try to get Stiles up, drops to his knees between Stiles’ legs instead and crowds up against him. Derek rubs his hands up and down Stiles’ thighs, somewhere in between comforting and sexual. He doesn't know what Stiles needs.

“Stop,” Stiles says, when Derek leans up for a kiss. Derek stills, half sitting on his heels while he waits. It’s the first thing Stiles has said to him in days. 

It feels like a long time before Stiles says, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“What?” Derek asks. It sounds like the question is coming from a long way away.

Stiles shakes his head, scrubs one hand over his face. He hasn't shaved in days, the stubble contrasting sharply with his pale skin. He looks old, suddenly, older, the man he’s going to become, not the boy he is. 

“I’m tapping out,” he says. “I’m done.”

“Done with what?” Derek asks. Stupidly, he thinks. He knows what Stiles means, wants to make him say it anyway. No easy outs.

“This. Everything. Werewolves, druids, all this shit. I’m out.” He finally looks Derek in the eye. “We can’t do this anymore.”

“Is this—”

“My dad almost died,” Stiles says, talking over Derek like he doesn't even hear him. “He got stabbed in the fucking stomach and he almost bled out in front of me. I had to stand there until you were done fighting and I had to watch him, dying, because of me.”

“It wasn't—”

“Don’t you say it wasn't my fault,” Stiles snaps. “Don’t you dare. He wouldn't have been there if it weren't for me. He would have been home, he would have been safe.”

“It would have been someone else, then,” Derek tries to reason. “Someone’s else father, or mother, someone who’s less—”

Stiles stands up suddenly, forcing Derek off balance, knocking him backwards with the strength of it. “What are you trying to say, that he deserved it? That because he’s a cop, it’s somehow fine for him to die, because at least he signed up for it?”

“No, Stiles, of course not,” Derek says. “I didn't mean—”

“It doesn't matter what you meant,” Stiles says. “It’s not going to happen again. He’s not going to be in danger because of me, ever again.”

“He’s always going to be in danger,” Derek says, gently. “He’s the sheriff.”

Stiles’ whole face crumples at that and suddenly he’s young again, not seventeen, just a little kid who wants to keep his dad safe. Derek gets up, moves to pull Stiles into a hug.

“Stop,” Stiles says, when Derek’s arms are halfway around his body.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just told you,” Stiles says, gaze cutting to the floor. “I can’t—not any of it. We can’t do this anymore.”

It’s the truth his mind has been shying away from, ever since Stiles said it. He understood it the first time, but he didn't want to.

“You don’t—want to,” Derek says. He starts backing away but Stiles grabs his wrists, holds him tight.

“I can’t be involved in any of this, anymore,” he says slowly, carefully. “Not—not for you, not even for Scott. And it has to be a clean break, or I won’t—I won’t be able to.”

“Okay,” Derek says, nodding his head. He gets it, he does: he’s not worth it, the risk, the possibility of Stiles losing his father. How could he be? It’s been five months and it’s been—good, so good, Derek had never imagined that a relationship—that sex, his mind corrects itself, just sex—could be like that, but that doesn't matter, because it’s not enough. 

“You understand, right?” Stiles asks. “Why I have to—”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He looks down, realizes he’s still holding Derek’s wrists, and lets go. “Thanks. For—”

“You’re welcome,” Derek says, oddly formal, feeling dumb, but Stiles looks relieved, so he gives in to the impulse, reaches out to cup Stiles’ face gently, just for a moment.

“Take care of yourself,” he says, half statement, half plea, and then he’s gone.

***

It’s terrible.

Derek has never broken up with—been broken up with by—anyone. There were a few people over the years, in New York, those months in Pittsburgh, but nothing serious. It was sex and then it was over and Derek didn't care if he never saw them again, usually went out of his way to make sure he didn't. 

There was no goodbye with Kate, no dramatic break up scene: she left Derek thinking she loved him, right up until the moment he knew they were all dead. 

Nothing really changes: Derek gets up, he works out, he has pack meetings at the loft once a week. There’s nothing to distract him now, no alphas, no darach, nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. He thinks about it, over and over again: the bags under Stiles’ eyes, the way he seemed to cave under the weight of his father’s injury, how his fingers had felt, wrapped around Derek’s wrists. 

He drives himself crazy, imagining what he could have done differently, what he could have said to make Stiles stay, to make Stiles keep him. It doesn't change anything, it doesn’t make any difference: he goes to bed alone, wakes up tangled in his sheets, reaching for someone who isn’t there. 

***

He’s out when he sees them: Stiles and a pretty, blonde girl, holding hands while they walk down the street. She’s petite, a whole head shorter than him, the way Lydia is; the way Stiles likes his girls. Derek stands on the corner, a shopping bag in each hand, and watches them, pressed close together, the way Stiles throws his whole head back and laughs at something she says, the shape of one arm wrapped around her shoulder when a breeze kicks up and she shivers. They look perfect, like everyone’s idea of high school sweethearts, two beautiful, young people so in love that it shines right through. 

He stands there until long after they've disappeared into the movie theater, fingers still linked. He pictures them sitting together in the dark, bodies moving together where no one can see. The way Stiles will kiss her, hold her face sweetly in those big hands while his lips brush hers, how good at it he’ll be, and Derek knows that, he knows it personally, because he’s been kissed by those same lips, been held carefully by those same hands. 

He goes out to a club, far outside Beacon Hills. He gets drunk—he knows all the ways—and lets someone pick him up, take him home. They fuck and Derek leaves afterwards, in the early hours of the morning, tired and hungover, ashamed of himself and his weakness, of having fallen apart so easily over such a stupid thing. 

***

It doesn't get easier. It gets worse. 

Aside from the pack meetings, Derek doesn't see the others. He doesn't want to: Stiles told Scott everything, the day after he broke up with Derek, and Scott told Isaac, which means everyone knows. Knows that their alpha, a grown man, was fooling around with a teenager like—like some kind of predator, like a monster. 

He withdraws, pulls back from the pack because it beats dealing with their pitying looks, the way Erica keeps trying to talk to him about it. 

It’s fine. It doesn't matter. Stiles did the right thing: he would have left Derek eventually, found someone better, safer, someone who treats him right. He probably did Derek a favor, breaking up with him early, before he could get attached.

***

Her name is Heather. She and Stiles have known each other since they were kids; their moms were best friends. Derek tries, and fails, not to be miserably jealous that this girl has known Stiles for years, knows all the little details and minutiae that make up his personality. Knows his real name, even, which Derek has never been able to get out of Stiles, not with threats or promises or even sex. 

Derek isn't following her, that would be—crazy, ridiculous, so, so stupid, because Stiles already made his choice and knowing more about Heather, learning what a beautiful, smart girl she is, and how happy she and Stiles must be together, just makes it worse. It’s like a scab that he can’t stop picking, though, no matter how much it hurts.

***

Derek goes out again and again. Beacon Hills is a suburb, but it’s not far from the city and it’s not hard to find different bars, clubs, places to get lost in for a night. He never brings anyone home; sometimes he doesn't even bother going to their apartments, just drags them to a bathroom or the alley and fucks them, sucks them off, lets them push him face first against the door and take him just like that, jeans around his ankles. It never make him feel better, but he keeps trying.

Cora is always awake when he gets back, sitting silently on the couch and watching him stumble through the front door. He doesn't say anything about it; neither does she.

***

He’s at the laundromat, throwing in another load of dirty clothes when the scent of Stiles hits him. It’s been four months and it’s still like a punch in the gut. He straightens up and turns, only to find himself facing Heather.

There’s a moment where they’re both speechless, just staring at each other. She’s wearing one of Stiles’ shirts, the one with the big bullseye on it that he had on when they first met. Her hair’s up in a messy bun; it looks like she just rolled out of bed (it looks like she just rolled out of Stiles’ bed, his mind whispers) and the shock of it leaves him breathless for an extra second.

“Are you spying on my in the laundromat?” she asks. She draws in a deep breath and Derek is afraid, for just a second, that she’s going to scream and bring the whole place down on him. Instead, she says, “don’t think I haven’t noticed you following me around. What’s your problem?”

Your face, Derek thinks, and it’s so fucking childish that he grimaces. Heather notices and her eyes narrow. 

“I don’t have a problem,” he says, as steadily as he can manage. “And I’m not following you.”

“I've seen you lurking in the same place as me five times in the last two months,” she argues. “Beacon Hills is not that small.”

“I’m just trying to do my laundry,” Derek says, turning his back on her, trying to make himself appear smaller as he carefully slots quarters into the machine. “Why would I—”

“Because of Stiles,” Heather says, carelessly. She boosts herself on top of a washer and sits down, swinging her feet back and forth as she watches him. “He told me all about you.”

“He wouldn't,” Derek says, knee-jerk, and Heather’s smile is sharp.

“Aha, so you are the mystery man. He wouldn't tell me your name, but it wasn't hard to figure out.”

“Nothing to figure out,” Derek replies, petulantly, knowing that he sounds like a child and not caring. He lifts the little flap, pours a capful of detergent in. 

“Except why you broke his heart,” Heather says. 

Fool me once, Derek thinks. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Hmm,” Heather says. She continues to sit there, watching him while he moves down the row, starting a second load of darks. She’s very obvious; he can feel the pressure of her gaze on the back of his neck while he sorts through his bag and it reminds him of Stiles, the frank way he would always look at Derek and refuse to lower his eyes, and it makes him mad.

“Can you—stop that,” he says, trying to sound disinterested in the answer.

“Waiting for my clothes,” she says. “I’m just trying to see what he sees in you. You've got tall, dark, and brooding down to a tee, but that wouldn't be enough for him.”

Derek grinds his teeth. 

“I've known him a long time,” she continues, unaware that he already knows all this. “So I know a thing or two.”

“Look,” Derek says, when he’s finished putting all his clothes in, adjusting the temperature settings, adding the detergent and fabric softener and every other thing he could think of to do while his back was turned. “I don’t know what you think you know, but I didn't—break his heart and anyway, it’s none of your business.”

“You really don’t have any reason to act like a scorned lover,” she says. “You’re standing here washing your girlfriend’s clothes.”

“They’re my sister’s,” he says, stupidly, and Heather’s face softens.

“I’m not trying to be a bitch,” she says. “I just don’t like seeing my friends hurt.”

“He’s the one who—stopped things,” Derek tells her, quick, like ripping off a band-aid. “Okay? So you can stop acting like I did something wrong. I didn't hurt him.”

The laundromat is silent, aside from the machines.

“He hurt you,” Heather prompts after a minute. “That’s what you were going to say?”

Derek swallows thickly. “I don’t have anything to say,” he repeats. “Can you just—”

“Okay,” Heather say quietly, sliding off the washing machine. “Sorry,” she adds, before stepping out the front door.

***

Stiles barges through the front door of the loft on a Friday.

“Hey, asshole!” he shouts. Derek is on the second floor, lifting weights, but he could hear Stiles coming from a block away, the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat as he approached. It had taken everything not to run outside and see what was wrong, if Stiles was okay: Heather didn't live far from the loft, he was probably just on his way there to see her, excited.

He comes down the stairs slowly, hearing Stiles pace. He probably should have taken his key back—he probably should never have given Stiles a key in the first place, never mind that he’d been thinking of pack business when he’d done it, not—not anything romantic. Sexual. It was a stupid gesture, anyway.

Derek has to steel his shoulders, taking the last few steps. Being this close to Stiles, after so many months is—hard. Harder than he thought it would be. Derek’s senses don’t let things dull over time; having Stiles this close to him again, seeing him, smelling him, it feels like only a day has passed since they were last together. Even now, Derek can pick up something that belonged to Laura, something that still carries her scent, and it’s like she’s just been gone for a minute, like she’ll be back any second. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Stiles jumps, scowling as he turns around to face Derek. “Do you get off on being a jerk, or is that just an incidental part of your personality?” he demands.

Derek doesn't answer, just takes the opportunity to look at Stiles. It’s been a while. He looks so much better than the last time Derek really saw him, after the hospital: the bags under his eyes are gone, he’s put on a little weight, and he’s actually got the beginning of a tan. Heather’s been really good for him. Even Derek can admit that.

“Stop staring at me,” Stiles snaps. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s yours?” Derek asks, fighting to keep his voice even, not to give into the familiar urge to yell back, to pick fights with Stiles that end with breathless make out sessions or sex that starts off furious and ends tender, loving. Derek quashes that thought before it gets any further. 

“Okay, you don’t get to—we broke up and it was mutual, stop telling people that I broke your heart and that I’m a horrible human being because it isn't funny anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Heather, Scott, Allison, Erica,” Stiles says, ticking the names off on his fingers while he lists them. “Even Lydia—who once threatened to wax me in my sleep if I didn't shut the fuck up about you—is on my case. Why would you—”

“I didn't do anything,” Derek says. “Ask your little girlfriend about that.”

Stiles’ mouth twists. “She’s not—we have a mutually beneficial relationship, okay, we’re not dating. Or I should say, we did, because she told me yesterday that she doesn't want to have sex with me anymore because looking at your sad face in the bagel shop is killing her libido.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I've ever heard,” Derek says flatly. 

Stiles takes a deep breath. “I just don’t understand why you would—”

“She asked me what happened and I told her,” Derek says. “If you wanted to keep it a secret, maybe you should have sent me a memo.”

“What are you talking about!” Stiles exclaims. “I didn't—dump you or whatever you've been telling people.”

“You told me that we couldn't—do that anymore, how the hell do you define breaking up with someone?”

“It was mutual! You agreed!”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yes, because it would have made any difference if I didn't. I wasn't going to date you against your will. You made it clear that you weren't—interested anymore.”

Stiles stares at him. “That isn't what I said at all. I thought you understood—”

“I did,” Derek says, “I do, you don’t need to—I get it, alright.”

“I really don’t think you do,” Stiles says, slowly, staring right at Derek, not looking away. Derek breaks first, turns around to find something, anything to do so that he can escape the weight of Stiles’ gaze. He starts straightening up papers on his coffee table, stills when Stiles puts one hand over his.

“Derek,” he says quietly. “Hey, can you—”

“You should go,” Derek says, not looking up. He doesn't want to see whatever’s on Stiles’ face right now—pity, scorn, derision. He doesn't need it; he wants to keep one good memory of Stiles and the way he used to look at Derek—fond, open, like he cared—

Stiles kisses him, suddenly, cutting him off mid-thought. It’s—Derek is embarrassed by how quickly his knees go weak, how Stiles has to grip him by the arms, just to keep him upright. They kiss for a long time, his hands on his Stiles’ waist, just a little too tight; Stiles’ fingers in Derek’s hair, tilting his head to one side so that he can hold Derek just where he wants him. 

Derek is lightheaded when they break apart, panting hard. He keeps his hands on Stiles, doesn't want to let him go yet.

“It was never about not loving you,” Stiles says, almost speaking against his lips. Derek keeps his eyes closed. “I thought I had to choose. That I could only keep him safe if I picked him over you, the pack.”

“You’re right,” Derek tells him. “He’ll always be in danger because of me. All of you are. I’d leave, if I thought it would help.”

“I’d drag you back,” Stiles says simply.

Derek draws in a shuddering breath, forces his eyes open. Stiles is staring at him—fond, open, like he cares. It’s almost unbearable and he tries to duck his head, but Stiles’ hands are on his face, keeping them eye to eye. 

“I don’t want to miss you anymore,” Stiles says. “It’s too hard. Can you—do you think you can let me back in?”

Derek pulls back and Stiles’ face drops, along with his hands. “Okay, I get it—”

“Stop,” Derek says. “No more talking. That’s what got you in trouble in the first place.”

The look Stiles shoots him is hesitant, hopeful. “So—”

“I missed you, too,” Derek admits, feeling the weight of it, all those months, lifting off his chest.

Stiles’ grin is sharp and bright and Derek has to kiss him again, to feel his joy. Stiles’ arms come back up, wrap around his body and pull him close. They stay like that for a long time.


End file.
